


hello my old heart, how have you been?

by graceless_wolf



Category: Les Mis - Modern, les mis
Genre: M/M, NEEDLESS FLUFFY DRUNKEN CONFESSIONS, alcohol cw, i was at the dmv you would get bored too, i wrote this int wo hours listening to the mix my babefriend made me xoxo to apollo, ok maaybe more than two hours???, two to three non consecutive hours today
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-21
Updated: 2014-05-21
Packaged: 2018-01-25 23:25:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1666331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/graceless_wolf/pseuds/graceless_wolf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He thinks: I love you into next month, next year. I probably love you into my next life.</p>
<p>He thinks: I love you like the flowers you press between my text books. Like something to be treasured, not because you are fragile or weak or can’t protect yourself, but because I want to be able to do something to show you how much you mean to me.</p>
<p>He thinks: I love you like the moon loves the sun, always chasing each other across day and night, never able to say a thing because I am always out of breath from chasing you; from loving you.</p>
<p>He says: “If you were here right now I’d probably do something stupid. Like kiss you, maybe.”</p>
<p>Then he passes out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	hello my old heart, how have you been?

Courfeyrac does not love Jehan.

 

Love is not the right word for what he feels for Jehan, he thinks.  
  
He likes the slope of his lips. He wants to run his fingers through the softness of Jehan’s hair, use it to pull himself closer. So close maybe they’ll forget where one of them ends and the other begins, and he doesn’t love him. Or maybe he does. After all this time, he’s stopped trying to explain it.  
  
He likes the way Jehan says his name. He likes his words in general, how he can twist them into strands of gold and wind them around Courfeyrac’s temples like a crown. Courfeyrac has always mimicked famous poets, let them inspire what he says and writes, but Jehan? He doesn’t need a muse, or a famous poet’s mind to trace. He only needs a pen and the backs of Courfeyrac’s hands and then his temples are gleaming in the sunlight. He likes the way Jehan looks in his bed in the morning, sleepy and small and he left Courfeyrac a tulip flower on the nightstand when he got in last night.  
  
He picks it up, presses the soft petals to his nose and tries desperately to convince himself he doesn’t love him.  
  
If he had a better word than love, he’d use it.  
  
++  
  
“You’re still young, Courfeyrac,” Combeferre tells him, “Love is not what you’re feeling. Infatuation, maybe. It will pass.”  
  
“Or maybe he _does_ love the boy,” Grantaire points out with a smirk, happy to play the devil’s advocate. “They live together, share a room, they’re never apart anyways. They’re basically the old married couple of this group.”  
  
“Nope,” says Bahorel as he walks by, leaning down to ruffle Courfeyrac’s hair, “that would be you and Enjolras.”  
  
“Too busy to get married,” Enjolras butts in as he runs through the café, hair a mess, to drop a stack of papers on Grantaire’s lap and a quick kiss to his lips, “I’ve got a revolution to plan.” He studies them all for a moment before plucking a newspaper from the table and beginning to read. It’s comfortable here, in the back of the little café. Courfeyrac, with his head in Combeferre’s lap, Bahorel leaning against the arm of the plush couch. Grantaire is sitting across from them, and Eponine is behind the counter.  
  
"We _know_ ," they all groan. Simultaneously. It's more than a little frightening.  
  
"Now, now, boys," Cosette says, the bell on the door jingling behind her, "play nice."  
  
"Don't we always, dearest?" Eponine teases, and Cosette flicks her ear before kissing her hello.  
  
"God, I hope not," says Cosette in possibly the sappiest voice he’s ever heard.  
  
Everyone pretends not to be listening.  
  
"Joly will be late," Cosette announces to the room at large. "And so will Marius. They're studying for finals."  
  
Enjolras makes an irritated noise, but Grantaire slaps an extremely loving and affectionate hand right over his mouth to shut him up.  
  
"Courfeyrac, do you know if Jehan will be here?" R asks.  
  
He shrugs. "He was up late last night writing; still asleep when I left."  
  
"And I'll bet you stared at him like the lovesick fool you are," Bahorel says, shooting him a wink. "Poor sap."  
  
"Who's a poor sap?" asks Jehan.  
  
Bahorel falls off of the couch's arm.  
  
"Grantaire," Combeferre says calmly, "Just look at him."  
  
Grantaire -- thankfully on the ball -- grabs Enjolras, who was reading something in the paper but is now straddling R's lap and being kissed rather excitedly. They all (excluding Eponine and Bahorel, who might have high-fived) have the decency to look away.  
  
"Oh," says Jehan. "I see."  
  
Enjolras pulls away and -- red faced and breathing hard -- collects his scattered newspaper. "I have work to do," he says, “and _so_ do all of you.”  
  
“Come on, E,” Courf gripes, and ‘Ferre smooths his hair back soothingly, “I’m in distress. Give a guy a break.”  
  
Enjolras simply raises an eyebrow at him and Jehan stares for a second, an expression Courfeyrac doesn’t recognize flitting across his face.

 

“What’s wrong?” he asks.  


“Our darling boy has gone and fallen in love,” Combeferre says, smiling serenely down at him. Courfeyrac resists the urge to punch him. Just barely, though.

 

“Oh really?” Jehan asks, sounding much more interested.

 

“Really and truly,” Cosette says.

 

“With who?” Jehan asks, lifting Courfeyrac’s legs just enough to sit where they were, arranging them on his lap.

 

“Oh, you _idiot_ ,” Eponine says, “With—.”

  
“ _Alright_ , oh Fearless Leader,” Bahorel says too loudly and grins, bowing at Enjolras until his nose nearly touches his knees. “You heard the man, people! Stop your whining about your shitty love lives and start whining about politics.”  
  
Enjolras hides his face in Grantaire’s neck. Grantaire tries especially hard to hide his laughter behind his hand.  
  
It doesn’t really work.  
  
++

 

The first time he says it, he’s drunk. Wasted, actually, probably more so than Grantaire, which is saying something. That, or Grantaire just holds his liquor better, as he’s only swaying a little when he stands up, words only slurring a little when he tells Courfeyrac:

 

“I’ll check on you tomorrow, mon ami, don’t do anything stupid.”

 

In hindsight, Grantaire probably jinxed it.

 

As soon as R’s dark hair has disappeared out of his apartment and out of sight, safe under the steady, sober arm of Enjolras, Courfeyrac does something stupid.

 

He pours himself another drink first, however, and coughs as the liquid burns straight down to his stomach. Jehan wouldn’t be home tonight, he was pulling an all-night study session with Joly and Marius. So, of course, the only solution was to drink until he forgot he probably shouldn’t crave Jehan’s presence in their bed as much as he did.

 

When they first bought the place, they almost didn’t. Buy it, that is. They were in their sophomore year of college, and finally felt sure of their footing in New York. (Sometimes when he was drunk or emotional, Grantaire would slip back into French, and Bossuet still conversed brightly in the language with all of them. “If I don’t use it,” he said, “I know I’ll forget.”) It only had two bedrooms, and three roommates, at the time.

 

“Bunk beds!” said Bossuet.

 

“No,” said Jehan.

 

Eventually, Bossuet got one room, and Jehan and Courfeyrac took the other. They did not get a bunk bed. They did, in fact, get a king sized bed and two nightstands. It probably should have been more awkward than it was, especially after Bossuet moved out, and neither of them claimed the extra bedroom.

 

“It’s an emergency bedroom,” they said, whenever someone asked about it. “Just in case. It’s nice to have the spare.”

 

He takes another shot.

 

He is really, really drunk.

 

He finds his phone somewhere between this couch cushion and that one, and holds it like it has all of the answers to any question in the universe (and given that it’s the newest IPhone, it probably does).

 

He dials Jehan.

 

He is really, really drunk.

 

Jehan says: “Hello? Courf? Are you alright? Did you butt-dial me again? I thought E and R were coming over to hang out with you. Yes, it’s Courfeyrac, go back to your notes. I’ll only be a moment. Hello?”

 

Courfeyrac says: “I am really, _really_ drunk.”

 

“Oh, you are?” Jehan says, “Well, you were hanging out with R. It makes sense. Where are they?”

 

“Went home,” Courfeyrac says, “You should come home. Too. Like they did.”

 

There’s a pause.

 

He says: “Except don’t go home to _their_ home. They’re probably fucking. Come _home_ , home. To me.”

 

When Jehan speaks again, he sounds concerned, “Are you alright, mon cher?”

 

And that’s how Courf knows he probably sounds drunker than he feels, because Jehan only calls him ‘cher’ when he’s scared for Courfeyrac’s health or safety or, most commonly, mental state.

 

“’M fine,” Courfeyrac reassures him, trying to sound as calming as possible. “I am very, very drunk.”

 

That gets a chuckle out of Jehan, and Courf is – for a brief moment – filled to the brim with the sort of brazen and bold pride that only comes with a chest full of “I am not _dying_ tonight” courage and being extremely, intensely wasted.

 

He thinks: Man, I love Jehan.

 

He thinks: I should tell him that.

 

He thinks: I love alcohol.

 

He thinks: But I wouldn’t tell alcohol that.

 

He says: “I love you.”

 

Jehan laughs a little, fondly, “I love you, as well.” There’s a sound in the background, like someone talking, and then Jehan telling whoever it is to shut _up_ , can’t you _see_ I’m having a conversation?

 

“No!” Courfeyrac says, feeling almost… _angry_? Why is he angry? Right, he loves Jehan. That kind of sucks. I mean, it’s awesome most days, but sometimes (like tonight!) it’s not very awesome.

 

“Cher? Are you alright?” asks Jehan.

 

“No. I think I’m in love with you.” says Courfeyrac.

 

“Oh,” says Jehan.

 

“It sucks,” Courfeyrac continues, “I mean, most days it’s cool, but also it hurts a lot. And you have such pretty hair. It looks gold sometimes, not red. Copper, that’s the word. I _love_ your hair. I love _you_. And it sucks because you don’t love me. I don’t think.” He wrinkles his nose, “I mean, you love me, but like you love Enjolras. Or Combeferre. You know? Not like I love you.”

 

Jehan is silent for a long time, a heavy kind of silence. It sets Courfeyrac’s teeth on edge, makes him want to crack a joke, say something to diffuse the tension. That’s always been his specialty. But he also doesn’t want to make Jehan angry. Not when he’s trying to tell him something so important. He loves Jehan and telling him that is _important,_ dammit. Though he’s not at all sure why it’s so important. Didn’t Jehan know already? He had to know. Regular friends didn’t share a bed. He was pretty sure.

 

“How do you love me, Courfeyrac?” Jehan asks, finally. His voice sounds small and tinny against Courfeyrac’s ear and it sucks that he isn’t here, but it’s almost good that he’s not. Because if he was there, Courf would probably do something really stupid. Like kiss him.

 

He thinks: I love you into next month, next year. I probably love you into my next life.

 

He thinks: I love you like the flowers you press between my text books. Like something to be treasured, not because you are fragile or weak or can’t protect yourself, but because I want to be able to do something to show you how much you mean to me.

 

He thinks: I love you like the moon loves the sun, always chasing each other across day and night, never able to say a thing because I am always out of breath from chasing you; from loving you.

 

He says: “If you were here right now I’d probably do something stupid. Like kiss you, maybe.”

 

Then he passes out.

 

++

 

He wakes up hungover and staring at Jehan’s face.

 

Jehan is looking back at him, curiously. Like he’s expecting Courfeyrac to say something, anything.

 

Courfeyrac races from the bedroom and into the bathroom and vomits.

 

++

 

“Sorry,” he says, five minutes later, when Jehan is handing him aspirin and a glass of water. “Probably not what you wanted to wake up to.”

 

Jehan swallows hard and says, “I’m not sure what I wanted to wake up to.”

 

That stops him, because what a weird thing to say and “Are you alright, Jehan?”

 

Jehan shrugs, a little sloppy, and rolls his eyes up to the ceiling. The smile on his face is not one of happiness, really, more nerves. The ability to smile under panic has always been one of Jehan’s strongest skills, and Courfeyrac’s weakest. He doesn’t like that Jehan is so good at it.

 

“What do you remember from last night?” Jehan asks.

 

“Uh,” Courfeyrac says. “Not much? Enj and R came over for a bit, but they went home at like, eleven. Then I got drunk as fuck. Like, I don’t think I’ve been that drunk in years. I feel awful. Then I – I uh…-- _fuck_. What _did_ I do?”

 

“You called me,” Jehan tells him, flopping back on the mattress, possibly so he can stare at the ceiling some more. Courf tucks his legs under himself and downs the aspirin.

 

“Fuck.”

 

“Yeah.”

 

“Jehan—”

 

“Did you mean it?”

 

That makes him pause. He stares down at the glass of water. “I don’t know what I said.”

 

“Don’t you, though?” Jehan asks.

 

“I’ve got a pretty good idea.”

 

It’s quiet for a bit. Courfeyrac keeps staring at his water. Jehan keeps staring at the ceiling. It feels like something drastic should be happening, like an earthquake, or a fire. It feels like the roof should come crumbling down around them, like there should be a meteor outside. It doesn’t feel like that. It feels instead like another Sunday morning after doing something incredibly stupid Saturday night. It feels like he should go make coffee for himself and tea for Jehan.

 

“Did you mean it?” Jehan asks.

 

“It doesn’t have to be a big deal.” Courfeyrac says.

 

“That’s not what I asked, Courfeyrac!” Jehan snaps, and he winces.

 

He takes a deep breath, and Jehan isn’t staring at the ceiling anymore. Courfeyrac can feel his eyes burning a hole into his head, like he’s trying to find the answer for himself. He wants to tell Jehan. He wants to be graceful and poetic about it. He wants something romantic, or life-changing, or earth-shattering, because Jehan has always loved shitty romance movies and that’s what he deserves. He takes another deep breath.

 

“Yes,” Courfeyrac says, soft and low. It doesn’t even sound like his voice at first, it’s too hesitant, too nervous. He’s always been loud, bursting into anything he does with all he can muster, but right now he is _terrified_. He says, “I’m sorry.”

 

Jehan laughs, bright and airy and clear. He isn’t sure what that reaction is supposed to mean, but he gets up to leave anyways.

 

“Where are you going?” Jehan asks, laughter turning into a pleased hum. “Come back here.”

 

“I’m sorry,” Courfeyrac says, suddenly frustrated with the entire situation, “but no. I don’t know exactly why you think I’d want to, unless you’d like to laugh at me some more. That’s not exactly the most pleasant thing to hear after telling someone you love them, so—.”

 

“Wait,” Jehan interrupts, “wait, I wasn’t—I wasn’t laughing at you.” He moves forward, stops just close enough for Courfeyrac to see the barely-there freckles across the bridge of his nose. “Courfeyrac, mon cher, I wasn’t laughing at you. I was laughing at _us_. I was laughing because – dammit, we deserve each other. We’re both absolute _fools_.”

 

“I’m not sure I’m following,” Courfeyrac says. “I thought--,”

 

“You also thought Pluto wasn’t a planet.”

 

“Because it isn’t!”

 

“Courfeyrac, Pluto has _always_ been a planet!”

 

“ _NASA_ said--”

 

“I don’t care _what NASA_ said, Pluto is still—”

 

“ _Not_ a planet. The scientific community agreed that—”  


“I’m in love with you,” says Jehan.

 

“I’m not sure the scientific community said anything about that,” says Courfeyrac. He sort of can’t feel his toes. Or his fingers. Or his brain.

 

“They don’t have to,” Jehan says, smiling at him. “Pluto is still a planet, Enjolras is not actually too busy to get married – there’s a ring in that jacket pocket, the flowers I gave you last week weren’t just decoration, and I am _in love with you.”_

 

Jehan presses a hand to his cheek and Courfeyrac clutches at it, at him, like he’s a drowning man and Jehan is made of air. He doesn’t know if he’s holding on to keep himself alive or to keep Jehan from floating away.

 

“You’re in love with me,” says Courfeyrac.

 

“You’d know that if you paid any attention to the flowers,” says Jehan.

 

Then they’re kissing and he isn’t sure who started it and he isn’t sure it matters because all that matters, really, is the soft catch-tug-slide of Jehan’s mouth on his. He hasn’t really kissed much of _anyone_ before, too focused on other things, but now that he’s kissing Jehan, he can’t imagine it being better than this, ever.

 

Then Jehan is pulling away and making a face and saying, “Go brush your teeth, you disgustingly hungover man.”

 

Courfeyrac just grins at him, too pleased to argue. (He may run into a wall or two on his way to the bathroom, but that’s his business, damn it, and he’s got a pretty good excuse.)

 

++

 

“So Jehan tells me you finally grew up and figured your shit out,” Eponine says as Courfeyrac walks out of the bathroom.

 

“Jehan told you that?” he asks.

 

“Okay, so I came in using the key you gave me and saw Jehan standing in the kitchen all kissed up and loved on and staring at the god damned coffee machine like he was in love with _it,_ and I put two and two together.”

 

“Nicely done, Holmes,” Courf says, grinning at her.

 

“Thank you, Watson,” she says, kissing his cheek.

 

Jehan walks in then. He hands Courfeyrac a cup of coffee and says, “That better not make me Mary.”

 

“Shit,” says Eponine, “I think it does.”

 

Courfeyrac snorts loudly and sips his coffee. Then Eponine is wandering into the kitchen to get her own cup and Jehan is taking his away.

 

“Hey,” Courfeyrac says but then they’re kissing and oh, okay, he can live with that. This is definitely a fair trade.

 

He nips at Jehan’s bottom lip once, liking the way it sends a full body shudder through both of them, liking what that movement does to their bodies with how close they are. He threads his fingers through Jehan’s hair, tilting his own head to get closer, closer, closer. Jehan’s got one hand around the back of his neck and the other burning a hole into his hip and he tries again to close the nonexistent space between them.

 

Somehow, by the time Eponine comes back, they’ve managed to get themselves pressed up against the wall.

 

“Somehow,” she says, grinning when they jump apart, “I’m not even surprised. Also, I’m going to go now. But, I will _be back_ in about _two hours_. With _other people_.”

 

They both just sort of stare and her. She scrubs one hand down her face and says: “ _Please_ don’t be naked when that happens.”

 

++

 

They aren’t naked. Mostly.

 

They also pretend to ignore Bossuet handing Bahorel a significant amount of money. Then they pretend to ignore Eponine taking that money and then some from Bahorel and Grantaire.

 

++

 

Courfeyrac is maybe a little bit in love with Jehan.

 

But Jehan is maybe a little bit in love with him, too, so it works.

 

++

**Author's Note:**

> warnings for courfeyrac being really fucking drunk for like half of this fic!!
> 
> title is from the song 'hello my old heart' by the oh hello's
> 
> come say hi to me on tumblr @jameskirkofficial!
> 
> unbeta'd, any and all mistakes are mine. please point them out (politely) if you find any i missed.


End file.
